


Everyone Needs To Stop Getting Hurt

by Mellow_Yellow



Series: Adventures in Babysitting [7]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Babysitting, Broken Bones, ER waiting rooms, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:25:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3200567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellow_Yellow/pseuds/Mellow_Yellow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The <em>one day</em> Mickey lets his guard down and Ian puts him in charge of the youngest Gallagher kids turns into the <em>one day</em> when every kid within a three foot radius seems to be simultaneously trying to hurt themselves, and Mickey's not here for that shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyone Needs To Stop Getting Hurt

The thing about little kids, Mickey was coming to learn, was that they were always trying to kill themselves. He didn’t remember, as a little kid, trying quite so hard to get hurt. The surprising multitude of babies and little kids in his life now, though, they seemed to actively strive for it—throwing themselves on the ground, tripping over things, actively throwing himself on the ground getting arms or legs caught on sharp corners, scraping their knees. 

Even the older ones, like Ian’s kid brother and sister, weren’t immune, they were constantly getting in fights (Carl) or hurting themselves with sharp objects (also Carl) or starting fires and panicking and trying to put them out with their bare hands (still Carl, that kid needed to fucking chill already).

Which was why Mickey quietly made sure he was never solely in charge of a kid, alone, by himself, at any one time. He was wary of babysitting in all its forms, even of his own son. Yevgeny seemed especially committed to flailing and throwing himself on the floor at any opportunity, which Svetlana and Ian insisted was normal but Mickey privately thought was because the baby could be a little shit sometimes.

But solo babysitting. That truly struck fear into his heart, in a weird, sissy way he couldn't quite explain.

So he hedged his bets. He watched Yev but only if Svetlana or Mandy or Ian were around. He let Ian talk him into to hanging out with his younger siblings, but only if Ian was part of the deal, too. So far it was working. So far, as long as he didn't draw too much attention to it, he'd managed to make it work.

Then he fucked up. He let his guard down, once, and he _fucked up_.

It was only one afternoon. Not a full afternoon even, just a few hours in the late morning. He’d woken up in a good mood, even, completely unaware how far sideways everything was about to turn.

After some marathon sex (and what was Mickey's life coming to these days, he actually had intense, intimate slow-bones on weekend mornings, with eye contact and hand-clasping and everything, he could practically hear Bon Jovi crooning in the background and he knew he should hate it, he totally should, but he didn't, he was _into it_ , and he hated that he was so into it, god, he sucked) when Ian left to get breakfast started, Mickey just lay there breathless and noodle-armed and with a burning in his nose and eyes that he would claim until his dying day was allergies, _not_ stupid emotional girl-tears,

Needless to say, when he’d wandered down to the Gallagher kitchen, he was not at his most alert.

Ian was making coffee. “Hey you,” he said in an annoyingly fond, gentle voice that made Mickey flush and glance away, because he was slowly losing control of his own life.

He huffed in greeting and sat at the table, where Liam was eating Cheerios and babbling to himself, and Debbie and Carl were arguing about something, loudly.

“Jesus, this house is always so freaking _noisy_ ,” he muttered, reaching to snag a piece of toast off Debbie’s plate.

She smacked at his hand, missing, and scowled at him. “That’s my breakfast, make your own.”

Before Mickey could argue back, because people in this neighborhood used to be scared of him, _come on_ , Ian came around the counter and tossed another piece of toast onto Debbie’s plate. “Everybody chill, okay? No more fighting this morning. Fiona already grounded you both.”

“She’s not our mom,” Carl grumbled. He looked mutinous. The whole kitchen felt grumbly and tense. “She’s being a bitch.”

Mickey reached out and smacked him on the back of the head, far more gently than his own dad or mom or brothers would have ever bothered to be. “Knock it off.”

Carl reared back, rubbing his head dramatically, looking outraged. “What did I do?” he demanded.

“You know what you did,” Mickey said, raising an eyebrow. Because sure, he wasn’t going to throw Fiona a parade, and she was a bossy pain in the ass most of the time, but Mickey of all people knew the alternative. The younger Gallagher kids didn’t really know what a sweet setup they had, the whiners.

Ian was unhooking Liam from is height chair and bouncing him on his hip, making funny faces at the baby and generally being adorable, the fucker. His phone beeped in his pocket and he pulled it out, looking idly at the text message. He made a face.

Mickey felt suddenly on edge, like a wildebeest scenting the air for predators (and fuck, he wasn't even a badass lion or shit in his own internal ramblings, fuck, he used to be _tough_ ).

“Fuck, I need to go into the store,” Ian said, then, looking at Liam, continued in a goofy voice, “Linda’s short-staffed, again, isn’t that a pain, buddy?”

Mickey frowned. “But you were off today.” Fuck, but he sounded clingy. He _felt_ clingy. After their morning together, he’d been looking forward to lounging in the afterglow like a lame gay loser. Now those plans were shot to shit, apparently.

“Well, now I’m back on, I guess. Linda called this morning.” Ian held Liam out like a gift and Mickey took him automatically, letting the toddler's heavy weight settle into his arms, still staring at Ian. Who was grabbing his coat from beside the door as he leveled an eye on Carl and Debbie. “Fuck, Fiona wanted to make sure you actually _stayed grounded_ today.”

“On what grounds?” Debbie protested irritably.

“It was one mailbox, who the hell cares,” Carl whined at the same time.

“Wait, what the hell, man, where are you going?” Mickey said loudly over both the younger kids’ voices.

“You broke curfew three times last week to hang out with your weird skanky friends,” Ian told Debbie, then turned to Carl and said, “and you set three mailboxes on fire and you know it, man, come on.”

Finally he stepped forward and pressed a kiss to Mickey’s forehead. “You’ll be fine, just keep them all from dying and I’ll be back in a few hours.” 

Mickey bit his lip to keep from admitting that _that was exactly what he was afraid of_ and looked down at Liam. 

“Why aren’t you taking the little man with you?” Mickey asked desperately. His day had originally been supposed to be free of babies, free of kids of any kind, really, with their needs and their propensity for injury. Why did this keep happening to him? Why was his life so filled with damn youths these days? 

“Take him to the store with me?” Ian asked, laughing. “Linda would have my ass, you know that.”

“Why don’t you call Veronica or some shit?”

Ian shook his head, wrapping a scarf around his neck. “Nah, man, she’s got her own kids. And you’re already here.” 

Suddenly, in dawning realization, Mickey replayed the night before, Ian’s casual but firm insistence that they sleep over at the Gallagher house that night, that they get away from Svetlana and the raucous noise of the Milkovich house for once, since Svetlana was on Yev duty and the other hookers would watch him at the Rub N Tug the next day.

At the time Mickey had been stupidly eager for the reprieve, but _fuck_ , he had been _played_. 

“It works out so easy this way, right?” Ian was saying now, smiling hopefully.

Bullshit Ian had been called back in today. It was sneak-attack babysitting, and Mickey wasn’t here for that shit.

He was about to erupt, until he remembered the way Ian was always watching his kid. He’d drop everything to watch Yevgeny, never complained. Yev wasn’t Ian’s, he didn’t have any responsibility to take the weight off Mickey’s shoulders, but he did it anyway, offered to, even. And here was Mickey, bitching because he had to keep an eye on three non-infants for maybe a few hours. Shit. He felt like a schmuck. 

“Okay,” he said heavily. “Go. You owe me, man.” Even that was a lie, because in the cosmic ledger of the debts in their relationship, Mickey knew he was deep in the red, but he said it anyway because he knew Ian found his grumpiness charming, somehow, the weirdo.

Sure enough, Ian grinned. “You bet I do.” He leered a little as he leaned in to Mickey’s space, and Mickey laughed, swatting him away. “You guys be good,” he told Debbie and Carl, and then he was gone.

Leaving Mickey, alone, with three kids. There went his perfect record of never babysitting alone. _Fuck_.

Liam hanging contently in his arms still, he spun to face Debbie, trying one last Hail Mary. “Couldn’t you—?” he tried, but she cut him off.

“I’ve got some business to take care of,” Debbie answered smoothly, getting up from the table. She smacked a kiss on Liam’s cheek as she passed by.

“But you’re grounded?” Mickey said, hesitant. 

Debbie paused, eyebrows going up. “You really going to force me to stay home? On a Saturday?”

Mickey dithered. He couldn’t even force his own—what were they calling each other these days, his boyfriend? Some dudes at the club said partner, but that was queer as all hell, and fuckbuddy sounded wrong too. Whatever, he couldn’t even make his _Ian_ stay home. He did not feel qualified to enforce discipline on a fourteen-year-old.

“Whatever, go on, fucking abandon me,” he said, trying not to whine, failing. He turned to Carl as a last-ditch.

Carl looked up from his plate, like he could feel Mickey’s desperation, and hurried to follow Debbie. “See you later Liam,” he muttered.

“Deserters,” Mickey said after them, and then it was just him and the toddler.

Liam looked up at him solemnly, not as big of a starer as his own kid, but just as quiet. “How’s it going?” Mickey said. Liam smiled. Mickey felt lulled for a moment. He forced himself to take a breath. Liam was well-behaved, this would be easy. The older kids were gone anyway, how much trouble could Mickey and one toddler get up to in a few hours?

And for an hour, things were fine. It was his first time babysitting the littlest Gallagher by himself, and so far it was easy as _shit_. Maybe this was some kind of weird, reverse-psychology Ian way of encouraging Mickey to have more confidence in his parenting, or some gay shit like that. That seemed like a lame Ian thing to do, and even though it was a long-shot, there was a possibility that that was what was happening. It was just some stupid test, and Mickey was _nailing_ it.

Distantly, he felt himself getting just the tiniest bit complacent.

Mickey brought Liam to the family room, set him down to play with blocks. Liam happily complied, and Mickey went to get a drink. Take that, Ian, he silently crowed.

And then things started going to shit.

First, Liam fell and bonked his little head on the side of the coffee table and started wailing so loud it felt like it was shaking the walls down.

Mickey crouched down beside him, waving his hands a little ineffectually, unsure where to touch that wouldn't make the situation worse.

“Hey, buddy, it’s okay, you’re okay,” he said, trying to keep his voice warm and comforting, but he still sounded angry. Ian said that was just his voice, but Mickey tried to gentle it anyway.

“Muh-muh-muh,” Liam sobbed, mouth completely downturned and wobbly, “muh-my _head_.” The last word ended on a shrill cry that escalated into a scream that Mickey was reasonably sure could be weaponized to fight terrorists. 

He winced, finally settling his palm on the crown of Liam’s head, tilting the kid back just enough that he could get a look at the bruise forming on his cheekbone. “Your head hurts?”

“Yeah,” Liam cried. He brought his hands up tangle in the material of Mickey’s shirt. “It hurts _so many_.”

Mickey had to bite his lip down hard not to crack a smile. Liam seemed to catch the movement anyway and looked up, eyes wide and wet and so betrayed.

“Not funny,” he yelled. “ _Not funny_!”

Pulling the kid forward into his lap, Mickey rushed to apologize. “Okay,” he soothed, “okay, I’m sorry, you’re right, it’s not funny.” He hauled himself to his feet with Liam on his hip. “Let’s get you some ice, maybe that’ll help, what do you think?”

Liam hid his face against Mickey’s neck and nodded, rubbing tears and snot into the collar of his shirt, which happened to be a button-up because he was out of laundry. He sighed. Svetlana was going to kill him, she’d just gotten it back from the dry cleaners.

Mickey got Liam settled with a bag of peas, and he took stock. Okay, so that was an unfortunate bump in the road, or on the head, as it were, but it was fine. Things were _okay_. He could handle this. 

Next, not even a half hour later, Debbie came home with a black eye. It was a shiner too, already turning dark purple around the edge nearest her nose, the top lid swollen fat.

“What in the _hell_ ,” Mickey exploded, ready to go kick some asshole’s balls in, because what kind of a shithead beat up a fourteen-year-old girl, come _on_.

“It’s okay,” Debbie said, kicking off her shoes. “I had to beat up some bitches after school, no big deal.”

Mickey blinked. Debbie collapsed on the couch, looking at him evenly. Mickey blinked again. 

“The fuck?” he burst out, finally. “Seriously, what in the fuck is going on today?” He grabbed the frozen peas off the coffee table and thrust them at Debbie. “Everyone needs to _stop getting hurt_!”

Debbie accepted the frozen peas, which were now a little wet and drippy, and put them to her eye, but she shrugged. “Seriously, it’s no big. Holly and this new bitch she’s hanging out with were talking shit.”

Mickey felt suddenly very old. Debbie was supposed to be the _good one_. And it wasn’t like her explanation wasn’t similar to shit he’d said himself a thousand times before, but right now he wasn’t the one saying it, he was watching Ian’s nerdy little redheaded sister say it like she'd turned into some kind of mafia bruiser, and something about the whole scenario made Mickey want to bluster and tell all the neighborhood kids to get the _hell_ off his lawn, and use their words to solve problems, while he was at it. 

Debbie, unconcerned, turned to Liam, who was watching her curiously from his spot perched on Mickey’s hip. “What happened to your face, buddy?”

“He fell and hit it earlier,” he told Debbie instead of demanding to know when kids had gotten so fucking _volatile_.

"Oh no, is your head okay?" Debbie asked Liam, making an exaggerated sad face.

"It's broke," Liam told her, happily. Mickey rolled his eyes and dumped the toddler in her lap. He needed a drink.

Then, as Mickey went into the kitchen for a beer, Carl came clattering inside. 

Mickey watched the kitchen door bang open and the way Carl hobbled, holding his arm at a weird angle, his face pale and sweaty.

“Is Fiona home?” Carl asked stiffly. He leaned gingerly back against the counter. 

“She’s still at the diner man, you know that. She’s working a double.” 

“Oh,” Carl said, sounding shaky. “I forgot.” 

Mickey stepped closer, trying to get a look at Carl’s arm, but Carl twisted away, blocking his view.

He had a vague recollection, in the way they he was always only tangentially familiar with the complicated internal mythology of the Gallagher family, that Carl had broken his arm once before, a few years ago. Something with a car, had he been hit by a car, or fallen off a car? Mickey wasn’t sure, but either way, Frank had definitely been involved somehow, because that asshole was always conspicuous in his over-involvement or sudden absence when something terrible happened to the Gallagher kids, it seemed.

He made a note to ask Ian more about it. Something was prickling at his mind, some detail he wasn’t remembering.

“What happened to you?” he asked, pulling out a chair so Carl could lower himself down, slowly.

“Nothing, just fell,” he said tightly. Mickey couldn’t really get a good look at Carl’s arm, not with the way the kid was holding it against his himself, and the sleeves of his shirt were in the way besides. Mickey could wait it out, though.

“Must’ve fallen pretty damn hard,” he said.

Carl huffed out a laugh, then winced, the movement jostling his arm. “Yeah, pretty hard. Think it might be sprained.”

Mickey thought it was probably worse than that, but he held his tongue. He didn’t want to stress the kid out more before he told Mickey more of what had happened.

“Was your fucking dad there, by any chance?” he asked.

Carl looked up sharply. “How’d you know?”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Wild guess." 

Never great with secret-keeping, Carl started spewing forth the tale. “Frank wanted to borrow one of the kegs from upstairs at the Alibi,” he said. Mickey huffed out a sour laugh. _Borrow_. Sure. “And he said if I climbed up and got in through the top window, he’d come up and let me out from inside the bar.” Mickey was increasingly unimpressed by the planning involved. Everyone knew the rooms up above the Alibi were triple-reinforced, what with the hookers and the spare kegs within. Plus, the thought of Carl clambering up the rickety fire escape and window ledges behind the Alibi to the upper storerooms was already making Mickey uneasy to contemplate.

Carl was frowning, readjusting his grip on his arm. “But then Frank never showed.” It was a little pathetic, just how surprised Carl seemed, that his asshole of a dad would just leave him hanging like that.

Trying to be inconspicuous, Mickey leaned forward to glance at where the movement had pulled Carl’s sleeve up, exposing more skin. It looked swollen. “So what, you just panicked and jumped back down?” he asked. 

Mickey couldn’t help but fume internally. Shit, that was like two stories. Kid was lucky he wasn’t _dead_. Where the fuck had Frank gone, after fucking leaving his kid behind?

“No, I didn’t jump,” Carl said defensively. “I tried using the fire escape again, but it broke.”

That was no surprise; Mickey knew the back fire escape was so far from up to fire code it might as well be a coil of rope with a wick at the end. 

He tried to play it cool, but now that he had an idea of how Carl must’ve fallen, he was amazed the kid wasn’t still lying in the alley, passed out. “Well man, I think it’s time to let me see the arm.” 

Carl went, if possible, paler, and twisted so his arm was farther away. “It’s fine—” 

“I’m not asking,” Mickey said sharply, because the kid’s arm was clearly fucked. “Give me your arm, jesus.”

There was a pregnant moment when Carl seemed to be considering making a break for it. Mickey arched an eyebrow, waiting him out. Ultimately, Carl sagged and turned delicately in his seat so Mickey could see.

Being as careful as he could, Mickey pulled the sleeve aside just enough that he could see Carl’s forearm in the slack, Carl frozen and shaking. This close, he could see the blood seeping out in a slow trickle, partially obscured by the dark fabric of the shirt. He tilted his head to get a better look, and his stomach twisted a little. He could definitely see bone. 

Mickey was of course no stranger to injury. None of the Milkovich kids were, none of the kids on the entire block were, really. Kids fell, got in fights, got smacked around by parents or grandparents or siblings, and most people adopted a resigned, almost fatalistic air about it all. Kids got hurt. That’s just what happened, and trying to mitigate the risk would only end up making your kid soft.

In fact, it had startled him how gentle Svetlana was with Yevgeny, the way she set him down in the crib almost in slow motion, cradling him like he was made of spun glass and beams of sunlight rather than squirming baby durability. He’d never seen someone handle a kid like that before.

Which made it strange that seeing Carl’s arm in all its compound fractured glory was making him feel so woozy.

Mickey did some quick logistical considerations. Fiona was at the diner til late, Ian was at the store and Mickey hated to take money out of his hands if he could help it, lord knew the guy hated feeling like he wasn’t contributing fully these days, and Svetlana was busy jerking off some crusty old dudes for another two hours. Besides, none of them had cars, and the idea of maneuvering Carl onto the L with a bone half-sticking out of his arm made Mickey feel physically ill.

In his head, he tried to divine the location of the Milkovich town car…his cousins had used it yesterday, but this morning there’d been some conversation on dibs—Iggy. Iggy had the car.

Looked like he was going to have to rely on his idiot brother. Christ.

“Yo Debbie, watch the little guy for a while,” he called into the living room.

“But I had plans—”

“Fuck, you already got in one fight today, could you fucking sit tight so I can take your goddamn brother to the hospital,” Mickey yelled back, temper tripping. “The fuck is going on, this isn’t even my fucking _family_ ,” he said under his breath, conscious of Carl’s eyes on him. He tried to give him a comforting smile. “It’s okay, big guy. I got this.”

Luckily, Iggy picked up, which was not always a guarantee with the idiot. “I need you to give me a ride to the hospital,” Mickey said, as soon as his brother picked up.

“Svetlana said ask if you could babysit Yev tonight,” Iggy said, apparently uninterested in any backstory, calmly accepting Mickey's demand at face value. “I could pick him up from the Alibi on my way over—”

“No, shit, definitely do not bring Yev with you, christ,” Mickey interrupted, panicked. Fuck, with the way his day was going, the last thing he needed was to be responsible for another child who would inevitably end up injured, especially not a goddamn _baby_. 

He just wanted to run out the clock on this goddamn miserable day without one more little person getting hurt, was that so much to ask?

He hung up with Iggy, his brother promising to get over to the Gallaghers in ten, and Mickey shot off a few texts to Ian and Fiona, telling them where they were headed. It was the coward’s way out, he knew, but the thought of trying to explain verbally to Ian or Fiona how, when he’d been left in charge of the youngest Gallagher kids, he’d managed to go three for three in unexpected injuries, made him feel all sweaty and guilty, so he stuck with the text.

“Come on man, let’s wait on the porch,” Mickey said, and Carl, too exhausted from all the pain to argue, let Mickey lead him outside, grabbing their coats on the way even though it was unseasonably warm for the end of winter. He draped Carl’s coat awkwardly over the kid’s shoulders, and then they stood waiting at the top of the stairs in tense silence.

Carl was going through a growth spurt, it seemed. He was nearing Mickey’s height, his limbs narrow and gangly. His neck and shoulders had broadened, and he was on his way to being a full-on teenager at this point. His eyelashes were wet, though, his eyes huge in his round, shaved head, and he was pale with the effort of keeping it together. He really was just a kid.

“Hey man,” Mickey said quietly. “If you got to cry, you got to cry. It’s no big deal.” He wondered where in the fuck that piece of wisdom had come from, because it wasn’t like emotional vulnerability had ever been a key virtue in the Milkovich house, but watching a kid tremble with suppressed pain apparently brought out the sap in Mickey. 

“I’m fine,” Carl insisted tightly. His lips barely moved as he spoke, like he was expending all of his effort to keep perfectly still. Mickey got that, he knew what it like feeling like all of your bones and muscle were connected to the same thin puppet wire, the terror of the almost endless pain your body was capable of gifting you.

 _Hurry the fuck up, Iggy_ , Mickey thought urgently, like a prayer.

Carefully, so carefully, he put a hand on Carl’s shoulder, the one on the opposite side of the broken arm, just letting it rest there, gentle as a bird. 

“I’m sorry you’re hurting, buddy,” he said. It felt like the lamest combination of words ever strung together by a hopeless idiot in the history of the world, but Carl looked up at him in surprise anyway.

“Thanks,” Carl said, and Mickey was starting to sweat again because it seemed like they were being slowly dragged into an emotional moment, _fuck_ , his life these days.

But then, amazingly, before everything could dissolve into schmaltz, Iggy pulled up to the curb in the enormous town car, honking unnecessarily. Mickey flicked him off.

Iggy kept up a string of dirty jokes on the way to the hospital that made Carl laugh and then wince at the pain of laughing, while Mickey badgered Iggy to slow the hell down and not to stop so roughly at lights. Iggy called Mickey an old lady, and Carl snickered at that, and Mickey shot him a look over his shoulder, the little traitor.

To Mickey's slight surprise, Fiona was waiting for them at the hospital, foot tapping anxiously on the curb in front of the drop-off door at the ER.

“Hey kiddo!” she called out, hurrying over to help Carl out of the car. “Heard you hurt your arm again?”

She looked at Mickey, and then she smiled, making Mickey frown at the conspiratorial expression. He followed along, waving distractedly over his shoulder at Iggy as he drove away, feeling like a stupid fucking duckling or some shit.

It felt nice to watch someone else take charge at least, Mickey could admit that, grabbing some seats while Fiona took Carl up front to check in, coming back to in out forms.

"Got Gina to cover my shift, the ER usually takes forever," she told Mickey as she squinted at the clipboard in her hands. Mickey didn't know who in the fuck Gina was, or why Fiona was being so friendly, but he nodded anyway, trying to be reasonable.

And Fiona hadn't been wrong. It took forever for Carl to be admitted, and then Fiona and Mickey were stuck in the waiting room for even longer.

She didn’t try to make much small talk, which Mickey appreciated. She also handed him an old issue of Highlights already turned to a page with a crossword on it, which Mickey appreciated even more.

By the time Ian came striding into the ER waiting room, looking tall and calm, Mickey was so restless he felt ready to come out of his own skin.

Mickey looked down at his shoes, because he knew if he looked at Ian it would probably be clear as anything the abject relief he felt at having him here with him, and he still had some dignity left.

Ian had been coming off a low period that had made Mickey feel a little like he was going crazy himself as he watched it suck Ian under, but now, standing in the fluorescent waiting room light, he seemed more alert, even if his eyes were still shadowed and tired. Out of the corner of his eye, Mickey saw him scan the waiting room, then spotting Mickey and Fiona, start toward their corner of the crowded waiting room. 

He saw Ian’s beat-up shoes come to a stop right in front of him, and finally risked glancing up. Ian’s eyes were fixed and concerned, glancing between Mickey and Fiona.

“How’s the bruiser doing?” he asked his sister.

 Fiona laughed. “Well, good enough to give me some attitude, hence why I’m parked out here. He said, and I quote, ‘he’s not a fucking baby anymore and I didn’t need to hold his hand,’” Fiona said. She smiled wryly. “I’m sure the rules are different for his annoying older sister versus his cool big brother, though, so he’d probably feel better if you were in there with him.”

“I’ll talk to the nurse,” Ian said, but he sat down with them first, taking the empty seat beside Mickey, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

Mickey shrugged his shoulder, trying to shake Ian off, feeling defensive and off-kilter. “I’m fine, man, your brother’s the one who broke his damn arm, not me.”

Ian moved with the shrug like the tide, keeping his hand firmly in place. He squeezed at the taught muscle of Mickey’s shoulder, his thumb rubbing firmly at the knot. Mickey had to curl his toes inside his boots to keep from squirming or pushing into the touch like a goddamn cat.

“If we weren’t broke as shit, Carl would be the main reason we couldn’t afford insurance,” Ian said. “Kid gets hurt like it’s his goddamn job.”

The tone of the words was so soft and comforting and non-confrontational that Mickey just wanted to knee him in the balls. He settled for frowning at him, because he was lame and de-clawed as all hell anymore.

“I know.” He arched a mean eyebrow, and added pointedly, “I’m not a baby, either, you know.”

“I know,” Ian echoed easily. He didn’t take his hand off Mickey’s shoulder, kept rubbing his thumb absently, and by now Mickey would’ve been just as irritated if Ian had stopped, because it felt really good, damnit. “Carl’s going to be fine, it’s just a broken arm. He’ll probably need a few pins.” 

“I _know_ ,” Mickey gritted out.

“I know you know,” Ian said, voice still low and easy. “Just saying.” He used his grip on Mickey’s shoulder to shake him a little, playfully, like a big annoying goddamn puppy throwing an oversized paw at a playmate.

“Would you fucking stop manhandling me, asshole?” Mickey grumbled, dissatisfied with the actual level of genuine annoyance in his tone. He shot Ian a look. They were in a waiting room packed with cranky miserable people, the two construction workers seated across from them were starting to stare, Fiona was giving them an infuriatingly knowing look, Carl was inside the bowels of the hospital somewhere getting his bone stitched back into his body, did they really have to have A Moment _right now_ , because Mickey would argue no, they fucking did _not_. 

Ian didn’t reply immediately, hand still irritatingly firm against Mickey’s shoulder, like they had all the time in the world. He just kept looking at Mickey, that same steady, calm look on his face that Mickey had missed these last few weeks while Ian was feeling so depressed. Now, he looked so sure Mickey couldn’t be responsible for his little brother breaking a bone that it was almost ludicrous to suggest otherwise, like he trusted Mickey to be good, to be gentle, to take care of people rather than hurt them or break them apart, and Mickey felt honor-bound to correct him, to reveal that Ian’s trust was fucking misplaced.

Finally Ian blinked, sighing gustily, and turned to Fiona. “I’ll go check on Carl,” he told her.

“Good thinking,” Mickey said gruffly before Fiona could get a word in. “Unless you just want to sit out here and fucking cuddle all afternoon, you fucking loser.” To Mickey's irritating, Ian just huffed out a laugh and stood.

Squeezing Mickey’s shoulder one last time, Ian headed to the nurse’s station. Mickey tried not to be too impressed by how easily Ian chatted up the nurse and talked his way past the secure metal doors, assumedly to go find Carl. Ian was charming, sure, but shouldn’t there be some kind of security protocol at work here, Mickey thought, irritably, as he watched Ian disappear into the hidden labyrinth of the ER beyond the doors.

Mickey and Fiona fell back into their previous silence, but it felt more restless now. Fiona sighed loudly. “Fuck,” she said. “I need a fucking cigarette. You need a fucking cigarette?”

“I need a fucking cigarette,” Mickey said fervently, and they walked outside together to sit on the curb. Mickey shook out two cigarettes and handed one to Ian’s sister, lighting hers first before attending to his own.

As he inhaled and held the smoke in his lungs for a heartbeat, Mickey thought he’d probably never felt anything more soothing in his entire life.

Apropos of nothing, Fiona said, “When Carl broke his arm last time, the doctor said the bone would always be weak.”

Something in Mickey’s brain pinged. That’s what he’d been trying to remember before, because Ian had mentioned how the initial break two years ago would make Carl’s arm permanently more susceptible to breaks in the future. He remembered thinking it was a bummer, that the kid would be marked for life in a way, now. 

“He’s such a wild kid, figured we’d be back here sooner rather than later,” Fiona added. She took another drag on her cigarette.

“I got distracted,” Mickey blurted into the subsequent quiet, also relatively apropos of anything related. "Ian left me to watch everybody when he got called in, and I got distracted." It felt like he was in confession, or at least what he imagined confession must be like, he’d never been to a Catholic church before. “I let him leave, and Debbie too, so I wouldn't have to watch them too, but then Liam ended up hitting his head anyway."

“Liam hit his head?” Fiona asked, mildly, a little too mildly, in Mickey’s irritable opinion. 

“And then Debbie got in some fight, apparently,” he plowed on.

"Probably Holly and those skanky girls, right?" Fiona said sagely, and Mickey just gave her a look, because she didn't seem to be focusing on the fact that Mickey had been in charge when all this shit had fallen apart.

He tried to tell his stupid brain to _shut the fuck up_ , but it was a tidal wave of honesty now, and all Mickey could do was ride it, helplessly. “I didn’t really know where Carl was even at until he came back with the broken arm.”

It felt melodramatic to actually come out and say the words _it was my fault_ but they weren’t hard to hear. Fiona tilted her head to look at him. She obviously heard. 

“Sounds like you had quite the day,” she said finally.

Mickey was a little blown away by how casual everyone was being, Fiona and Ian, even Carl. Maybe that was a selfish thought anyway, his own need for someone to give him hell so he wasn’t stuck marinating in his own guilt, but regardless, he just wished someone would fucking yell at him or something.

Idly, he wished Lip was there. Asshole never missed a chance to lord his superiority over the little people.

At the very least, it would be nice if Fiona would just sigh or shake her head, act slightly colder toward him, even for an afternoon for letting all the kids get hurt. But then, that wasn’t really how the Gallaghers did things, he was coming to understand.

He looked at Fiona beside him, slouching placidly, eyes glued sightlessly to a poster about foot care for diabetics that was tacked to the bus shelter next to them on the curb.

Even as he was struck by how easy Fiona was being on him, he remembered being similarly struck by how easy Fiona could be on herself. Mickey’d gotten a stomachache just looking at Liam’s bruised cheekbone that afternoon, and the little shit had done that to _himself_.

He remembered Ian mentioning, in that flighty, offhand way he’d had in the soaring throes of that first mania last summer, how Fiona had initially wanted to fight the child endangerment charges, rather than admit she was guilty. Mickey was no family court specialist, but even the scattered story he’d been able to squeeze out of Ian at the time had seemed pretty damning.

He knew more about it now, and like everything else on earth and in the universe, that the whole story was more complicated than a stray bag of coke at a house party.

But now that the storm had settled, the Gallaghers rarely brought it up, at least verbally. And was that so wrong, moving on? Liam was only a baby, and Fiona was still in charge of raising him, so who benefited from her martyring herself day in and day out, rather than focusing on maintaining a forward momentum? Maybe it was better this way, being able to push guilt down and away.

Mickey wasn’t sure. He was jealous of the capability, at least. 

Himself, he lived in a strange vortex of regret that he could never quite escape. What if he’d convinced Ian to stay, to not enlist, to choose Mickey over some fantasy of military heroism? Mickey wasn’t such an asshole that he believed staying in Chicago would’ve kept bipolar disease at bay, but would it have struck so disastrously if MIckey hadn't been so fucking _mean_ to Ian in the past? If Mickey hadn’t been such a self-hating schmuck, would Ian have come back to his family when things got bad, rather than to the lecherous assholes at the clubs in Boystown?

Again, Mickey wasn’t sure. He wondered if Fiona agonized over what ifs like Mickey did, or if Lip did for that matter about what had happened to Liam, or Ian. Somehow he doubted it, and he envied them that. 

Still, if you didn’t carry around the guilt of hurting the people in your life (and in Mickey’s case, it was a small, compact circle of maybe three people, possibly five if you counted his dumb fucking brothers, which he went back and forth on), if you didn’t force yourself to keep it front of mind, what stopped you from fucking up again? How did you fucking trust yourself not to hurt people, how did _other_ people trust you not to?

How did _Ian_ trust him to be good enough, now, after everything?

“I’m a shitty babysitter,” Mickey admitted, a little miserably. He didn’t know why this was getting to him, out of everything, but it was, he felt like king of the assholes, the kind of asshole who just let kids, the people around him, everybody, just get sick, get hurt. An asshole like his dad.

“Not all of us can be kid whisperers,” Fiona replied agreeably. She took another long, luxurious drag from her cigarette, holding it in her lungs for a beat and exhaling like a sigh. “That’s why Debbie was usually my go-to for Liam, before she became all teenage rebellion, or Ian. Ian always had that way with kids, you know? He’s gentle.” 

Unbidden, like his mind had gone rogue, Mickey thought of all the times he’d hit Ian, beaten the shit out of him really, the time he’d kicked loose a tooth when Ian had cornered him in the old abandoned factory lot. Now, all he wanted to do was protect him, make him better, no matter how futile it all felt sometimes, but could that ever negate what he’d done in the past? Even when he wasn’t using his fists, he still felt like he was bumbling through everything like a giant blinded monster, hurting Ian the more he tried to help. He was dangerous, down in his core, and he didn’t want to be anymore, but there would always be that nerve inside him that remembered what it looked like when Ian’s eyes went wide in shocked, hurt surprise after being punched in the face.

Beside him, Fiona seemed to be undertaking her own troublesome internal review. “I mean, gun to my head, I’d say I’m good with kids too, especially my kids, but fuck, what do I know. I almost killed my little brother.” She shook her head. “Man, that’s amazing to say, still. Liam still has nightmares, and I did that. I let Ian run away like the family dog, and I don’t know what I was…it’s like looking back at another person, at another person I fucking _hate_.” She laughed hollowly. “It’s terrifying, when you think about what you’re really capable of.”

Mickey didn’t really know what to say, in the face of all that honesty. He squeezed the filter of the cigarette between his fingers, chewing his lip uncomfortably. Fiona sat stiffly beside him, also seeming embarrassed by her outburst. 

What a pair they must make, he thought grimly.

Mickey was always caught between feeling like he understood Fiona just by virtue of their common connection with Ian, and feeling like he didn’t really know her at all. He was starting to suspect it was the latter, because that little speech was not something you said if you were free of guilt. Maybe she was just more functional with it than Mickey was.

Behind them, the door to the ER slid open with a chime. Mickey glanced over his shoulder and saw Ian loping toward them. He ruthlessly repressed the urge to smile in grateful greeting.

Ian threw himself down on the curb carelessly, falling practically in Mickey's lap, then adjusted so he was just pressed tight to Mickey’s hip. 

“How’s Carl?” Fiona asked when he was still.

“They were taking him to do some laparoscopic shit while I was in there,” Ian said, gesturing with his hands as he spoke, “and they said he’ll probably need surgery in the future but for now they’re going to cast it and brace it with a sling and see how it heals.”

Fiona sighed tiredly. “I’m sure that surgery won’t be free, either.”

Mickey crushed out his cigarette, feeling responsible, wishing he could go back in time and keep Ian from ever leaving him charge that morning.

“Why do you guys look all moody?” Ian asked into the silence. He poked Mickey in the chest. Mickey reflexively elbowed him back, and Ian flicked the tip of his nose, but before Mickey could whirl on him in outrage, he threw an arm around Mickey’s neck, pulling him close like he was going to give him a noogie. He didn’t though. He just held Mickey at an angle, chin digging lightly into the crown of Mickey’s head. Almost unconsciously, Mickey settled, letting his weight rest against Ian’s warm body.

Christ, the day the guy figured out how big of a manhandling boner Mickey had was the day Mickey never got the last word on anything, ever.

“We’re not moody,” Fiona said, sounding pretty moody even to Mickey’s ears, now that Ian had brought it up.

“It’s just a broken arm,” Ian said. He chuckled, shaking his head. Mickey could feel the movement of Ian’s chin above him. “Remember when Carl tried to set all of Debbie’s Barbies on fire and accidentally burned the shit out of his thumb?”

 Fiona pursed her lips. She seemed to be fighting a smile. “It’s not the same, and it doesn’t make it okay that he keeps getting hurt.”

 Ian didn’t relent, though. “Or that time he wanted to see if he could pull off his own toenail with pliers?” He nudged Mickey’s thigh with a knee conspiratorially. “Turns out he could.”

 “Fuck,” Mickey breathed, despite himself. That shit was fucked up.

“Or the time he tired to jump his bike off the curb and he ate shit and scraped his entire face up like the Hamburglar?” Ian added, hitting his stride. “Or when Liam was sad, so Carl kicked himself in the head to cheer him up?”

Fiona snorted, covering her mouth with a hand. “He actually split the rubber on the toe of his shoe against his forehead.” 

“Cheered Liam up, though,” Ian said.

“Sure did,” Fiona agreed, and when she glanced at Ian, they both threw their heads back and started laughing.

Mickey sat back, struggling out of Ian’s grasp, and looked at them in bafflement. “You guys are fucking weird,” he said, but that only made Ian and Fiona cackle harder. “Seriously, your whole family, but your little brother especially.”

“Well,” Ian said, settling enough that he was only snorting intermittently now. He didn’t object to Mickey’s accusation though, knocking his knee genially against Mickey’s leg.

“And would you stop knocking me around, you goddamn bully?” Mickey griped. He ducked his head so neither of them would see him flushing. 

In a flash of movement, Ian moved forward like a snake and pressed a smacking kiss to Mickey’s cheek, making Mickey rear back and fall off the curb, his arms wind-milling madly. He landed in a dirty puddle swearing. “Would you cool it with that shit, people can see.” 

“You’re both so adorable I just want to fucking throw up,” Fiona said flatly. 

Mickey shot her a look, and Ian grinned. “Let’s go inside, I’m fucking freezing.” He tugged at Mickey’s elbow, helping him up, and the three of them trooped back inside to wait for Carl.

Ian and Fiona passed the time telling stories of other injuries Carl had sustained, or Lip, or Ian. Mickey just listened, idly watching the siblings banter back and forth. Fiona was avidly recounting how she’d broken her ring finger freshman year of high school in the door to the gym locker room where she’d been hooking up with Bobby Reminco, and Mickey drifted.

He’d broken his own arm, the left one, when he was seven. That was he always said it, but it wasn’t really accurate, because he didn’t break it himself, his dad broke it, or the stairs broke it when his dad pushed him down them. 

That wasn’t the only time he’d broken his arm, just the first, and only significant because it marked the beginning of a long, brutal history of beatings his body had taken. He’d snapped his collarbone a few years later, shattered an ankle climbing up a telephone pole when he was thirteen, gotten into so many fights that for a few years his hands and knuckles and wrists were always swollen.

In classic Milkovich style, he’d taken care of most of that himself, even that first broken arm, except for when he’d been forced to cave and get his ankle set and splinted in the ER when he was fifteen and gotten into a pretty serious fight with his cousins. 

In the moment, none of those instances had seemed especially meaningful. Sometimes you just got hurt, was the thinking in his house, almost like it was inevitable, like the tides or the sunrise, impossible to prevent or avoid, just something you dealt with once it happened. Nobody’s fault but your own.

It wasn’t until recently that Mickey had started to think that was kind of a fucked up way to think. 

When Carl emerged an hour later, sporting an electric green cast, he hurried immediately up to Mickey. “Some assholes at school owe me money, you think I could use this as like, a weapon?” he asked, his face eager.

“I don’t know, psycho killer,” Mickey said tiredly as he got up from the uncomfortable plastic chair. He shuffled his feet, nudging Ian, who stood up as well, stretching his arms above his head. “Let’s split before you break the other arm, okay?”

Fiona rubbed at Carl’s head, walking ahead with him as her little brother described  the relish the gristly process of setting his bone and splinting the arm before they put the cast on.

Ian kept his hands more or less to himself on the walk to the L, but he walked close enough that his arm brushed against Mickey’s, and Mickey knew he should step back, but he didn’t. Instead, he stayed just as close, letting Ian chatter in his ear about getting his running time back up, savoring the way he felt strong and steady and safe at his side. 

**Author's Note:**

> And that concludes the Adventures In Babysitting series! I had a lot of fun writing this - I don't usually do stand-alone character studies like this, so this has been a great learning experience. Thanks so much for reading and commenting and kudo-ing, you guys are the best!
> 
> Come follow me on Tumblr for updates on future fics: ohjafeeljadefinitely.tumblr.com


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